


Stories from Solstheim

by caffeinatedmusing



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bi-Curiosity, Loan Sharks, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Other, Reavers - Freeform, Short Stories, Solstheim, Tags to be added as needed, Werebeasts, ash spawn, f/m - Freeform, various depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatedmusing/pseuds/caffeinatedmusing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing series of short stories involving the residents of Solstheim. Drunken shenanigans, gambling, pirates, and more. Various characters, pairings, events, etc. Mature warning is for language, sex, and some violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Close Shave and a Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teldryn Sero and his patron Ceirin regale the regulars at the Retching Netch with a tale of their latest exploits.

“So we get to the tomb. And all the fucking Reavers that have been living in the place have run off and barricaded the doors, so whatever is in there just has to be that much worse.” 

It’s late; last call at the Netch, and Teldryn Sero and his patron Ceirin, have themselves an undivided audience. Glover is leaning in, eyes gleaming in anticipation. Geldis has taken a break and is seated at their table, sharing a last round with them before counting out the till for the night. His apron is off, his hair is down, and his feet are up on the chair next to him. Bralsa and Rirns are nodding along from their spots at the bar. There’s a group of miners gathered at the table next to them whose names they don’t know, but who are all turning to listen now as well. Even Drovas is pretending to be sweeping up near enough to overhear. 

“And we get inside and the place is a cursed mess. Blood, rotten food, a couple dead Reavers, it smells _terrible._ They left everything behind.” The audience nods, some make faces.

“Don’t forget that weird one we found.” Ceirin interrupts before his face is hidden behind his drink. 

“I’m getting to that.” Teldryn rolls his eyes and takes a swallow from his own mug.

“So we’re headed down to the lower levels and there, at the bottom of the stairs, is this _thing._ ” 

“We didn’t know what it was” Ceirin shakes his head.

“Never seen anything like it. Bug- like though. Too many legs” The spellsword is talking with his hands, animated gestures illustrating. He pauses to take another drink.

“Well, it’s already dead, so we keep moving. But as we’re creeping down the hall, we start to hear a noise.” His voice lowers for effect. He scratches his fingernails on the tabletop to make sounds. Several people shudder.

“So, obviously, there are more of these creatures.” Ceirin’s too loud. His pronunciation is too precise, even so he slurs just a little at the end. 

“Right you are. So there are more of them. Only we can’t see where or how many. So we’re sneaking and trying to be quiet. And we get to the end of the hall and there’s another noise. How’d you describe it?” Teldryn points at Ceirin.

“Squishy! It was a squishy noise.” Ceirin is giggling softly, exhaling fast through his nose, lips pressed together to hold it in.

“So now there’s a squishy sort of noise on top of the bug legs noise.” Teldryn nods.

“What in Oblivion was in this place?” Rirns is shaking his head along with the rest.

“Getting to that.” 

“Ceirin has point, and he’s looking into the room ahead and he sees something. So he’s trying to motion to me what it is. And he’s doing fine with all of this.. .” Teldryn’s shoulders are shaking with laughter now too, but he points to his eyes and then points forward to indicate the gestures. Folks are nodding.

“But then he gets to what the thing is that he’s looking at. And there’s where he loses me because suddenly its gestures like this,” He waves his hand in a circle, “And faces like this.” He makes a grossed- out face and moves both hands like he’s patting at something in between his palms.

“I’m not familiar with any of those signals. Where did you learn those?” Glover heckles Ceirin. 

“Do you know this one?” Ceirin, laughing, raises his middle finger.

“Now that one I know.” Glover raises his mug and taps it against the altmer’s finger, grinning back.

“Anyway, at this point I know I’ve lost him, so I try again, only more dramatic, bigger gestures, right?”  
Ceirin goes through it all again. By the time he’s through people are slapping tables, stomping, and laughing so hard they’re wiping tears away. 

Teldryn has his hand up over his eyes, he can’t even watch.

“So what did you do?” Geldis asks. Drovas is leaning on his broom, so engrossed in the story he’s forgotten to even pretend to work.

“Well, I lost my shit.” Teldryn says it so matter of fact that it sends them all into hilarity.

“I mean, I’m crouched there in the corner, my arm up over my mouth, I can’t breathe, I’m trying _so hard_ not to laugh. Because if I laugh, then _bug things_ will hear me and we’ll _die_. And somehow that just made it so much funnier.”

“What did it turn out to be?” Bralsa prompts from her seat at the bar.

“This thing I can see, it’s like an egg or something and it’s moving, that’s what the gestures were; my _gross pulsating egg thing_ gestures.” Ceirin motions again. 

“And now that I know that, it makes sense.” Teldryn agrees.

There are nods and chuckles all around the room.

“So I shoot this thing, and it explodes. Slime gets everywhere.” His gestures are too big and he almost knocks over his mug as he goes to set it down.

“Hate it when that happens.” Glover can’t resist interrupting.

Various good natured guffaws, wolf whistles and jeers are directed at the blacksmith.

“After that the room seems clear so we go ahead and enter. And we’re looking around. And we hear the bug legs noise again. Coming up really fast this time.” Teldryn stops to take a drink and Ceirin picks up the story again.

“I have maybe a split second, just a blur of motion and this thing is jumping right up off the floor and it goes straight for Teldryn’s face.” Ceirin stops to drain his drink. “I yell. He hits the floor.”

“It never even hit me, just blows up right in front of me in midair. So I go down not knowing what’s happened. And after its quiet for a bit, we both get back up.” Teldryn fills in.

“Which is when I have to tell him,” Ceirin smirks at Teldryn’s rueful expression, “that he has flaming bug guts stuck in his hair.”

Groans and laughter sound around the room.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the tale of Teldryn’s new haircut.” Ceirin sketches a little mock bow to the room. Scattered applause, more humorous whistles, jeers, and teasing. 

Teldryn salutes and nods with resigned good humor. 

Folks stand up and begin to file out for the evening. Geldis goes back to the bar to close out and Drovas goes back to sweeping as little as possible. 

Glover stands as well, stretching, before he turns to Teldryn with a sympathetic grin.

“Your helmet should be ready day after tomorrow. Sorry about the hair.” He reaches out and ruffles the dunmer’s noticeably shorter mohawk. 

He ducks out, chuckling to himself, before Teldryn can take a swing at him for doing so.


	2. Into the Drink(ing Contest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bralsa is all out of coin and has even fewer options. A contest might be her salvation. Or her damnation.  
> Either way, Geldis has a decision to make about one of his 'best' customers.

_…Late… lantern lights flickered. Bugs hummed….The scrape of something being dragged along the wharf…Her boots._

Staggering, the two figures weaved and stumbled together to the end of the dock.

_Someone was holding her up…and then not….Everything spun…_

She hit the water with an ease borne of limp- limbed drunkenness, the icy surf sliding around her, brine up her nose, burning away the acrid lingering aftertaste of vomit. An arm, corded with lean muscle, held her in for a moment before hauling her back up. She clung like a drowning skeever to the planks, dirty bitten down nails not strong enough, fingertips scrabbling at the wood, water streaming down through the hair that now covered her eyes. 

“Fuck you, Geldis! Fff..uck you….what the …fuck did you do that for?” She hiccupped.

The cold water made her stutter, washing away the too -warm flush from the alcohol. _Son of bitch owed her another round for this. At least one more._

“No offense, Bralsa, but you needed the bath. Passed out in your own sick behind the Netch again tonight.” The barkeep grabbed at her again, moving faster than she could slap his hands away, and hauled her back up until she could stand, dripping, on the dock.

“I did not.” 

“Yeah. I’m sure you were just resting your eyes.”

The two dunmer retraced their steps back to the road, slower and a bit steadier this time. Instinctively, she turned to follow him back to the tavern. He stopped and pointed her back in the direction of the vacant warehouse where she, Rirns, and a few other derelict miners had been squatting.  
“Go home, Bralsa. Sleep it off.” 

“Just one more. To warm me up. Pleeease. You know I’m good for it.” She pushed the whingy tone in her voice and tried to give him her best ‘pathetic waif’ look. Had worked like a charm on men when she’d been young. Now, dripping, shivering, and weaving on her feet? She needn’t have put out the extra effort. Pathetic, she was. But age, hard use, and alcohol had long since worn off the ‘charm’.

“No. Netch’s closed. Go home, Bralsa. And don’t come back. This is killing you.” Without another word, he turned and headed back to his tavern to finish locking up for the night.

“….You! Ungrateful n’wah. I pay your fucking bills, I do! Fuck yourself, Geldis! I don’t need you. I won.” She nodded to herself as she stumbled down the road. Whirling to scowl at the bartenders’ disappearing figure, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

“YOU HEAR ME?! I WON!!”

Hand on the knob, Geldis turned, shook his head sadly, and shut the door behind him.

Earlier, she'd been on one hell of a streak. _Should've bet more..._ .............................................................................................................................................................................................................................. 

The glass slammed down, leaving a faint ring dented into the grayed tabletop. One amber drop trickled down the inside to be absorbed; the splintery wood surface as thirsty as anything in the old tavern. 

Red eyes blinked, struggling to focus. The orc’s grey-green hand clenched into a fist, the only tell so far to his rising frustration. Bleary eyes, one rheumy with cataract, the other; some sun-faded undefined shade, narrowed in anticipation.

After a deep breathe, Bralsa raised her head and met Mogrul’s gaze in expectation.

The orc’s thin sneering lips pulled even farther back from his teeth. He lifted his shot glass and tipped it back. Liquid slipped out around his tusks, adding to the discolored stains on his tunic.

“Hey. No chheating. It doeshn’t count if ya drool it out.” Bralsa stated, proud of herself for not slurring too badly.

“When I win, you can lick it up while you pay me back.” Spittle flecked out onto the table with the ‘p’ sounds. He dragged his sleeve up across his mouth.

Another shot down and the room spun briefly, colors blurring together and lights too bright. Another panicked rush of adrenaline shot through her. She settled back into her chair, hoping it would prop her up if she passed out. _Not yet. Please, just little longer._

_She couldn’t pay him back. And if he had Slitter break her hands as punishment she would never be able to work again._

Mogrul swallowed back his next drink. It was hard to tell for certain through her own inebriated fog, but he seemed to be moving slower.

She slammed down another empty glass with deliberate force, adding to her ever growing collection. 

The loan shark stared at it and then waited, as he had every time, to see if she would keel over.

Huffing a few quick breathes to clear her head, she took the next shot slower. _Fake him out._

Glass after glass added up until observers had gone quiet and both contestants were slumped in their seats, hardly able to lift their shots. 

Bets that had started with noise and enthusiasm were prayed over now with baited breath. 

Another glass down. Bralsa gave no mind to the bit of liquid that slopped onto her hand.

Mogrul started to sip his, then moved as though he would set it down and forfeit.

Groans of anger and disappointment sounded, snapping him out of it. He finished it off, swallowing with effort. When his glass was down, he rocked a bit in his chair.

Bralsa immediately forced back her next shot. 

The old orc stared at the next shot before him without seeing it, eyes unfocused. He raised it as if it were heavy. He tried to throw it back as fast as she had, showing her up. 

He didn’t quite manage it. A good portion of the drink spilled down the side of his mouth. His eyes half closed, his arm slid down and the glass tumbled to the floor. A moment later, and the orc followed it, tilting sideways in his seat until he just went over. 

His bodyguard was too stunned to catch him in time and he came around wallowing on the filthy straw to try and right himself.

“I win!” Bralsa grinned at the prone orc and sipped her final shot. 

A good thing, too. 

By the time the alcohol caught up to her and she started to feel queasy, Mogrul had been dragged home and wasn’t there to see her staggering out into the night in search of fresh air only to collapse, heaving, behind the tavern.


	3. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunters and the wildlife on Solstheim are sometimes one and the same and all the more dangerous.

Spruce needles prickled his nostrils and stuck to his lips as he ran, nose to the ground. The trail was fresh, not an hour old. The tough pads of his paws gave him purchase on the windswept patches of ash and ice as he followed the scent of warm blood and life. 

_Dinner._

As the trail wound up into the rocky outcropping of boulders that marked the mouth of Moesring Pass, another scent caught his attention. 

Fur, the sour tang of cursed blood. Smoke and cured leathers and the blood of whatever hapless creature or traveler they had sacrificed to their shrine. 

He was all about the hunt. These hunted too, but they held themselves back as well. Still slept in bedrolls next to a campfire. Still traded for goods with travelers instead of living off the land as they were intended to. He couldn’t respect that. He’d left that life behind decades ago. The only fur he needed to keep warm was his own. 

A commotion up ahead; shouts and the odor of excitement as they scrambled to get after the prey he had unintentionally driven past them.

 _Soft dogs of Hircine_. He would rather die than lose a meal to ones such as these. Lips curled back from his muzzle and a low growl rumbled up into a warning roar as he rose up onto his hind legs. 

The pack turned, realizing the threat behind them. Almost as one, they began to change, subverting their human forms for their true selves.

Further up the pass, the frightened squeals of the bristleback told him that it was getting away.

Powerful limbs lashed out as the he waded forward, plunging straight thru the werewolf pack as they shook off the last effects of their changing. Their leader went flying from one swat of a massive paw only to land in a snow drift. Scrambling to right himself and shaking off the cold powder, the old wolf called to his pack. Reluctant, they held back for a moment before slinking out of the way.

Charging ahead, he picked up the scent of his prey once more. Higher into the pass, he came across it, a large lone male. The hog’s shoulders were a high fatty hump of muscle covered in silvering hairs, the tusks impressive. 

Though it’d given up, head low and flecked with froth around the mouth, flanks steaming in the cold air, the old bristleback would still be a challenge. The pawing of its hooves in the snow, gaining traction to charge, told that much.

_Good. ___

__He hated it when getting dinner was too easy._ _

__The werebear dropped back to all fours and approached._ _


	4. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's survival of the fittest out in the ash wastes....

There was the scent of another storm approaching on the air. Ash and ozone. Adrenaline and greed. 

The Reaver captain tightened the straps on her armor. Her men were camped below, finishing their scant evening meal, sharpening their weapons. There was an almost palpable sense of agitation tonight. These men were lean, vicious and spoiling for a fight. She had arranged to give them just that.

Hunger made a person desperate. Desperation made someone dangerous. Dangerous people got what they wanted. And she would capitalize on it all. Tonight.

She hiked up to the point, took the spyglass from the lookouts hands. The ship was coming around the bend. Right on schedule. 

Ebony, food, and furs. 

A haul to keep them warm, fed, and in good spending coin for months ahead. Solstheim was a harsh mistress, but in the right hands, it was a challenge to greatness. 

She signaled the scouts. It was time to move.

The ship was not taken by surprise. The spot was too well known for ambushes. But the meager crew, even with the extra guards, and without a mage, was grossly outnumbered. 

And those numbers dropped as flaming arrows and lightning bolt spells lit the dusk. Reavers scrambled up over the rails and onto the deck. The screams of the dying sung counterpoint to the battle, carried across the waves to shores where no one heard them.

The clash of steel, the stink of blood, smoke, and magic. She drew in a deep breath and savored it. She lived for these moments, high on wave of blood lust as she carved a path through the remaining crew to the hold.

They cut down the guards, tied the ship’s captain to the mast. 

Then off loaded the cargo onto the faster, lighter boats they used. 

Back to shore, just as the first ash began to fall. But not before they lit the whole thing up, leaving nothing behind but bodies and flaming wreckage. 

On Solstheim there was only one absolute.

Ashes to ashes.


	5. (Heart)Breaking the Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreyla Alor has to chose between being the dutiful daughter to her overprotective father, and following her heart. But maybe there is more to it than that.

“Dreyla?”

“In here.”

Dreyla wiped off the last bottle and set it back on the shelf, then closed and latched the cabinet doors, giving them a swipe with the dust rag as she did so. _There, that was the last thing on the list._ Red Mountain’s dust and ash got everywhere. Cleaning the shop after closing didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to do it all again before they opened tomorrow. Turning, she found her father standing in the doorway, watching her.

“Can you stay late? I need you to catalogue the latest shipment that came in this afternoon. I’d like to have that merchandise out by tomorrow. If you don’t mind?”

“But I…Mirri and I were going to meet for drinks tonight. Can’t it wait?”

Fethis squinted.

“You’re meeting Mirri Severin? Just the two of you?” 

“Yes, Dad. Just us.” Dreyla fought hard not to roll her eyes.

“You know I worry when you stay out so late. It isn’t safe after dark.”

“Dad, the guards patrol _all the time_. It’s right across town. I’ll have my dagger and my magic. It’s fine.” 

Her father sighed, the stoop to his shoulders so much more pronounced in these last few years since her mother had been killed.

“Well, alright. But be home before midnight. We can start on the new inventory first thing in the morning.”

_Finally_. Dreyla hugged her father and hurried to put the cleaning supplies away and get changed out of her work clothes.

She and Mirri met up in the road, laughter floating along with them as they headed to the tavern, arm in arm.

“Does he suspect anything?”

“He suspects everything. To hear him tell it, the entire town could have it in for me. I can’t take much more of this, Mirri. I thought moving here would be a good step, help him move on, but it’s made him worse. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

“I know what you mean. But at least you can tell him. Captain of the Guard? That’s a real catch. And you’d even still live here. It’s not like you’d be running off to join a caravan ad he’d never see you again.”

Mirri Severin reached over to tuck an errant strand of hair back behind Dreyla’s ear, making the taller woman blush without knowing why. 

“Maybe I should run off and join a caravan.”

The two women continued laughing and talking together as they crossed the plaza, waving or calling out greetings to folks they knew long the way.

They got a table together and did, in fact, have some drinks. Before….

Before Modyn got off work and the came down for a drink, out of armor and smelling of soap and ash and a hint of cologne. 

Before he and Dreyla snuck off to the supply closet for a quick fuck, all sweat damp fingers and breathless panting kisses. 

Before she had to apologize to him for breaking their plans to meet for breakfast the next day because she had work to do for her father. _Again._

Before Mirri slipped out to meet with her lover, who was also, unfortunately, her stepfather. She swore if her mother, whom she called by her first name, ever found out, she’d be disowned.

The two young women were an unlikely pair. They had started off with little in common beyond their mutual need for a reliable alibi in their affairs. Their friendship had begun as mere convenience and then had grown as shared frustrations, lies, heartbreaks, and hopes had built up common ground between them. Now the two were close, best friends, and often found in each other’s company.

_Why was love always so complicated?_

For few hours they got to smile and mean it. For a few hours they could be free. 

They met back up before walking home together along the empty, dusty road, arm in arm. It was well after midnight. They checked each other’s hair and makeup, straightened each other’s clothes. They whispered together in the pre- dawn hush, all tired sighs, afterglow, and adrenaline letdown. Before they stopped at Dreyla’s door and Mirri pressed quick kisses to Dreyla’s cheeks, a custom that had startled her at first but now made her smile. 

Then Dreyla was alone, hugging her arms around herself as she listened to the soft sigh of waves on the shore and ash hoppers buzzing in the woods above and behind the bulwark. She snuck in, tip-toeing down the hall, holding her breath as she past her father’s door, to her room. 

Before she could start to feel guilty over all the lies. This double life, lived mostly in darkness.

Before the loneliness settled back in, gnawing into her chest as she scrubbed the smell of sex and the faint hint of male cologne from her skin. She could still feel the aches and tingles against her skin where he had touched her. Bruises in the shape of fingers over her hipbones where’s he’d gripped her, mouth open, breath hot against her temple as he’d come.

And the places on her cheeks where Mirri’s lips had pressed goodnight. Soft and warm, sujamma scented and slightly damp. After.

She would have to tell him. 

Most women her age were married or at least getting engaged. She wanted that. A spouse. Children. A home. A life of her own. She did.

Maybe tomorrow she would tell him. 

_Why was love always so complicated?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed up some of the details, ie Mirri being a stepdaughter instead of a daughter, but since its her cover as a spy anyhow, I just wondered how many people she might have told lies to. It also makes no sense to me that Dreyla isn't allowed to be involved with Cpt Veleth because her father disapproves of him. Why? So I wondered if maybe Dreyla was the hesitant one.


	6. Treasure Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drovas and a couple of friends go after buried pirate treasure, but they aren't the only ones out hunting for something...
> 
> (inspired by the in game detail of half the pirate treasure chests already being dug up)

“Are you sure it’s here?” One hunched figure whispered. “I don’t like it out this far from the Bulwark.”

There was the sound of a shovel grating on sand as the second figure jammed the tool into the ground and turned to answer. The third figure continued to dig.

“Yeah, I’m sure. The map says ten paces from the shore and fifty seven from the old fir tree. That’s here. Now quit your bitching and dig.”

“This isn’t like swinging a pick. Are you sure … ?”

“For the last time, you lazy fetcher, this is it! No more mining for us. We split this three ways and all our problems will be over. Like we agreed.”

It was past midnight. The moons were setting, casting long wavering shadows and highlights down the coast and over the water. The three figures cursed and muttered as they dug, heaving spadefuls of wet black sand over their shoulders into careless piles all around them.

Ale bottles, both empty and full, reflected eerily in the bonfires light. One, half drained, weighted a tattered scrap of ink stained paper to the top of a crate.

The three dunmer worked in silence for a time, the passing hour marked only by the shish and thup sounds of sand being scooped, then tossed, and the sighing of the waves. 

Somewhere deeper into the woods that bordered the low cliff, something grunted. A series of snuffling growls. A moment later an animal screamed. The underbrush thrashed, there was another grunt, a thud, and then silence once more.

“What in Oblivion?!” Drovas jerked back from the hole they were digging and brandished his shovel in defense.

Three sets of red eyes turned in alarm to stare at the tree line.

“Fucking fraidy cat.” Meden recovered from the nervous reaction, laughing and shaking his head. “Just something hunting for its dinner.” He stepped away from his shovel to get another drink.

“How can you be so sure? It could have been ash spawn. We’re not that far from the old fort and Veleth says they’ve been really active out there. Besides, plenty of things out here could hunt us for dinner.”

“Ash spawn don’t hunt.” Evul Seloth, whose idea it had been to come out here, staggered up out of the pit they had dug. “We’ve got a fire going. We’ll be fine. Now if you’re done pissing yourself, we’ve got treasure to find.”

The three had met about a month ago. With the mines closed, unemployment had folks looking for other opportunities, no matter how improbable. Talk of easy coin was hard to ignore and old legends about buried pirates treasure had resurfaced. Any spark of hope to cling to.

Drovas had overheard them planning, offered a few suggestions, snuck them free drinks when his boss wasn’t looking, and helped them gather the shovels and supplies. So they had brought him in. He still had a job, but it didn’t pay him as much as he’d like. Pirate treasure, well, he couldn’t say no to that. Even if Geldis had been on his case for coming in late, exhausted and covered in dirt. If he found this, even at a third share, it wouldn’t matter if he got fired.

“Speaking of pissing, I’ll be right back.” Meden tossed his shovel down and headed toward the trees.

That seemed to signal a break for the other two, who dusted themselves off, sat down, and cracked open their next bottles. 

Maybe they should have saved the drinking for afterward.

“Watch it that you don’t get eaten by whatever was just there.” Drovas called after him.

“Yeah, yeah, save me another drink.”

The two dunmer drank without talking for a while. Evul leaned in and tossed some more kindling onto the fire. The flames lifted the shadows away, sparks whirling up into the night sky.

“What are you gonna do with your share?” Evul asked. Drink made him talkative and he’d had more than his share of the ale already. 

“I got some folks to pay off. Then, I think I’ll go someplace warm, where there’s real work. You?”

“Go back to Morrowind, maybe. Buy a home. I don’t really know yet.”

“Hey, is he coming back or what?” Drovas turned back to scan the trees. The flickering shadows made him dizzy.

Evul scowled at him and stood, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell, “Meden, if you’re quite done pissing we’ve more digging to do. Unless you want to forfeit your share? And I’m drinkin’ your ale!”

Deeming the break over, they stumble back to the hole and resumed digging. A solid thud sounded as Evul struck the top of something. Excited, they both scrambled to clear off what they had found. The outline of a chest was revealed as sand was scooped and brushed aside with shovels and then with hands. But try as they might, the two dunmer couldn’t get the thing to lift out.

There was no sign of Meden.

“Hey, you worthless pile of crap, come back here and help us!” Evul was getting mad now.

Trees rustled in the breeze coming off the ocean. There was another thud. More grumbling or groaning sounds.

And then another scream.

Drovas and Evul exchanged a look. 

“Meden, that isn’t even original. Quit messing around and help us get this chest up!” Drovas’ voice wavered just a bit. He reached back for the bottle he’d left on the sand and took another swig.

A strangled groaning sound echoed down the beach. Another shriek, and Meden came tearing out of the trees like he was on fire. Which he was.

Drovas dropped his ale.

Several shambling figures chased after him. Ash spawn. 

“Run, you sons of bitches, run!” He tore past them and flung himself down to roll in the wet sand; extinguishing the flames that had eaten a hole in his shirt and blistered the skin beneath. Blood stained one sleeve and his face was pale beneath the sweat and grime.

They turned to consider defending; the chest was right there and they were all three fit and ‘armed’ with shovels. They might’ve made ago of it, just drunk enough to feel they could take the risk and succeed, not a one of them a fighter. If three more ash spawn hadn’t risen from the sand beside them. If one hadn’t cut right through the handle of Evul’s shovel and knocked him sprawling into the sand. If they hadn’t been cut off from the chest.

All drunken bravado aside, the three dunmer ran screaming most of the way back to Raven Rock.

No treasure was worth dying like that.


	7. Borrowing Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 1: Desparate times call for desparate measures.  
> Step 2: profit.  
> Step 3: there is no step 3.  
> Mogrul and his bodyguard Slitter do business out of the Netch.

“Please. I just need to pay my rent this month. I'll pay it back, I swear.”

Slitter let his mind wander as he stood behind Mogrul, who leaned back in his chair and squinted at the miner wheedling and cringing in front of him on the bar rooms grimy floor. The fellow was dirty and desperate and just as much out of coin as he was out of options.

Just how Mogrul liked them.

“Here's the terms. I'll loan you that plus a little more. You take care of your rent, maybe a few other things. You have three months to pay me back everything I loaned you plus the interest plus my fee. The interest goes up the longer it takes you. If you are more than a month late in paying me back, Slitter here will start collecting body parts to sell to the necromancers to recoup the loss.” He gestured back at the bodyguard, and Slitter obligingly dropped his hand to the hilt of the fearsome dagger tucked into his belt. The miner swallowed. He looked close to pissing himself. 

_Now he'll have him sign_. Slitter had witnessed this routine too many times to count.

Mogrul slid the paper across the table and held out the quill.

After their exchange was complete, the fellow had praised the orc's generosity as he practically bowed his way out the door.

That concluded business. At a gesture, Slitter went to the bar to get them more drinks. He ignored the the sneers and side-eyed looks from the rest of the regulars.

Everyone hated Mogrul. Right up until they needed him. Mogrul hated them in turn. He'd been at this game longer than some of them had been alive. He took their coins, turned his profit, and gave them back the despair and greed they deserved.

As a boss, he paid well. And he let Slitter do the kinds of things he enjoyed doing. Like carving up some stupid fetcher who wouldn't pay them back. It beat the Redoran Guard. And the Morag Tong. And all the other worthless jobs he'd quit or been fired from over the years.

Hatred was a funny thing. Slitter could respect that. Back at the table, he sat and mused over the nature of it all as he drank. 

The bottom line? Didn't matter to him, so long as he got paid.


End file.
